


draws the moths out from their holding walls

by Notfye



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, bc I saw one (1) post about him being depressed and I cling to it like a lifeboat, depressed marius, some stuff is based in the book but the timeline's a bit wonky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notfye/pseuds/Notfye
Summary: It is a nice evening. The kind towards the end of spring where it is almost summer, the stones of the street still warm from the sun, the creatures of the night chirping and croaking at them. There is a light breeze; it flits through her shawl and twists in her hair. The air is cool but she is not bothered.





	draws the moths out from their holding walls

**Author's Note:**

> All the canon era fics for these two are post-Éponine's death????? Why do you all like hurting so much?
> 
> Anyway, have some fluff, I'm sick of seeing Marius in mourning for, like, a decade.
> 
> (title comes from Joan Shelley's Something Small)

They walk together in the dark.

Éponine had needed to get out of the apartment, away from the steadily rising tension before it boiled over more yelling than she wanted to face. 

She had intended to go alone, it is not as though she doesn’t go alone most times, but Marius had been wandering around himself, and, well. 

It is a nice evening. The kind towards the end of spring where it is almost summer, the stones of the street still warm from the sun, the creatures of the night chirping and croaking at them. There is a light breeze; it flits through her shawl and twists in her hair. The air is cool but she is not bothered. 

Marius walks beside her, eyes squinting into the darkness, cravat loosened slightly, hair mussed. It’s compulsive, Éponine’s learned, a nervous tic that only comes out when he’s especially tired. 

Her eyes flick over to him, then forward again. She can feel his eyes on her a moment later. 

“What is it?” he asks. Too comforting, nicer than that phrase is supposed to be said. “Are you bothered?”

She looks down and shakes her head, “It has happened before, I don’t think I should be bothered by it anymore.”

Marius struggles for words for a moment. “Days of - Days of melancholy?” he asks. There’s a tightness in his voice, as though there’s something swelling in his throat. 

“No,” she pauses, considering. “It is more like when something has happened so often that you should be used to it.” 

“Oh,” he says at first, coughs, “I understand that as well.”

“Do you?” Éponine asks. Half sincere, half teasing, though she recognizes that it may not really be the time for the latter. 

“Yes.” He turns to look at her, face shut tight. He runs a hand through his hair. Éponine looks ahead again, focusing very hard on the next street lamp and not what Marius is avoiding talking about.

But then, despite her efforts, he starts speaking, anyway. “I’m not mad,” he says. It is more like a shout, a burst of noise, than spoken word, though. 

“Monsieur, I mean no offense, but wouldn’t a madman claim that, as well?” She looks up at him, and he laughs softly. Evidently so distracted by their topic and her joke that he forgets to scold her for calling him Monsieur. 

“Yes, I suppose.” She hears the smile in his voice. 

He does not continue, and fearing that she’s pushed him to not speaking, she says, “Monsieur Marius, I do not think you mad.”

“Would things change if you did?” he asks, voice quiet. 

“No.” The word drops like a heavy stone. “If you are mad now, then you’ve been mad for as long as I’ve known you, and I like you sane or not.” 

“Good.” In the silence that follows, Éponine can hear their feet, his clacking, hers worn to a whisper. 

A while later, he says, “I’m not mad, but some days are melancholic enough to suggest otherwise.”

Éponine keeps her steps very measured and her face very still. “I’m sorry you have to live through that.” Both of them have suffered, she thinks. 

“It is not terrible. Others have it worse.” Éponine hears the rest of that sentence,  _ you have it worse. _

She takes a moment to think.

“Just because others feel more pain than you doesn’t mean…” she doesn’t finish, unable to find the words. 

He nods anyway, “Yes, that’s,” he swallows thickly, “that’s true.”

There’s a pool of light up ahead. 

“Besides,” Éponine says, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve already told you, I like you just fine how you are.” Her smile is sharper than a moment ago, like a fox’s, words taking on something that they haven’t before. Heady.

Marius flushes, barely noticeable in the dark. “Thank you,” he stutters out eventually. It is not a protest, but a nervous, giddy sort of assent. 

They stop under the next street lamp.

Éponine puts on a falsely poetic voice this time, “Would a Marius without his madness wear his hair the same way? Read the same books? Wear the same waistcoats?” At that, she steps closer and grabs his lapels. “Would he stay out in the sun long enough that freckles form? Would he still be so kind? So well read?” She breathes for a moment. “Would he still blush so prettily in the lamplight?”

He looks down at her, a little breathless. “‘Ponine,” he murmurs. It is like a prayer, perhaps, a child speaking them to get them over and done with, the words slurring together. She reaches up a hand, runs a thumb over his cheekbone. His eyes droop, the lashes casting long shadows in the light. 

Her voice soft, she asks, “Would he be standing here now?”

At last, he surges forward and kisses her. His hands are on the side of her face, gentle, cradling it. Éponine slides her hands so that they’re on his back, her arms wrapped lazily around his neck. A hand of his moves from her face to her neck, then to her arm, then her waist. One of hers makes it to the nape of his neck, running her fingers through his hair. At some point, their tongues end up in each other’s mouths. And then, minutes, hours, ages later, they finally pull apart. Marius looks wrecked, Éponine thinks, and then amends that, because they both do. He grabs her hand and links their fingers together, and then they’re running, not sure of who started it, but they’re headed back towards the apartments now. 

They tuck themselves away into Marius’ rooms and are not seen, but are heard from, until the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, follow me over at my tumblr, https://notfye.tumblr.com/.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are dearly loved and appreciated.


End file.
